Sharp Secrets
by A Cannibalistic Skittle
Summary: Soul lives a life of secrets and hate. Mostly hate of himself. When he feels the need to cut, it's overwhelming. BlackStar, in all his high and mighty 'greater than god' glory, is taken down a notch into reality when he discovers Soul's disturbing secret. How will he feel about the slow self-destructing habits of his best friend? YAOI, SELF-HARM May be triggering and LANUGUAGE.
1. Chapter 1

There was only one thing Soul hated more than himself.  
His scars.  
Self inflicted, his arms had seen years of pain. His whole body had seen his pain.  
Nothing, though, more than his mind.  
If you could ever guess what he felt in a moment like this, you wouldn't want to ever look him in the face again. The pain, the hate, the passion... It was a disturbing sight. In a time like this, his arm dangling from his lap, onto the hard tile floor, the blood smeared clothes and skin, the vacant, empty eyes, void of any emotion. The only thing Soul felt was the pain.  
But it wasn't enough.  
The pain from his arm was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He knew his own self worth was nothing. What did he deserve in life?  
Nothing.  
He knew he was uncool; worthless. He felt like an empty shell, just taking up space. There was nothing he could do about it, either. Except avoid it.  
And that is exactly what he was doing at the moment.  
Avoiding it.  
But he couldn't help it, he just had to do it. The pain, the physical at least, was good. It was addicting.  
The sting. The blade. The blood.  
Oh so addicting.  
His head lulled to the side, and he couldn't quite make his eyes focus on the tiled wall. He didn't have the energy.  
He didn't have much of anything anymore.  
His eyes carried down of their own free will, to his arm. Thousands of white lines, horizontally decorating his arm in a sickening fashion. There were the faded ones, the newer, pink ones, the red open ones he had only just inflicted.  
The blood, smeared over the scars. The sight was poetic in his mind, the red so vibrant against his pale skin. He watched as the blood oozed slowly, sliding down his arm and onto the floor. The slow drip.  
Drip. Drip. Drip.  
He swore he could hear the sound of it, if he listened closely enough. Or maybe it was just his imagination, but it soothed him. His arm started to numb, and he collected the energy to frown. The numb wasn't good, because it dulled the pain. He needed the pain. It was all he had.  
He didn't know how long he sat there, as his eyes went out of focus and his mind slowed down. It could have been minutes or hours or days, for all he knew. His mind was blank. He didn't feel time. He didn't feel anything.  
And he liked it.  
Though, as they say, all good things come to an end. After a while, he could feel himself start to slip back into reality. He would have fought it, had he not known that it was useless. He would be on some level of alertness soon, no matter how much he wished to be ignorant to the world.  
The cutting was cowardly; Soul knew he was a coward. But it was more than just the way out. It was a necessity for his being. It was an addiction. It was as much as an addiction as the white powder to a cocaine addict, or the drink to the alcoholic. The kill to the murder; the hit to the abuser.  
He had to have it.  
And he did.  
When his conscious mind was fully awake, he sighed. At some point he had closed his eyes, and he didn't want to open them. He knew that he had to, though. But he took a few minutes to himself before he did.  
After a moment of the quiet, he opened his eyes and lifted his head up, stretching the stiff muscles in his neck. He must have been sitting there for a few hours at one arm to push himself up, he rose wobbly to his feet. His other arm stayed limp at his side, as he wanted to refuse to look at it. He felt shame.  
This was an often cycle he felt when the world just became too much for him. The worry, then the panic, then the sting, then the bliss, then the shame. The shame was by far the worst part.  
He was disgusted with himself. Spilling his own blood, what right did he have? There was probably someone out there right now that needed blood, and Soul was wasting what he had. There were people who had it way worse than he did, and when he thought about it, his problems paled in comparison. He felt like a baby.  
A whiny, ungrateful, stupid little baby.  
It was disgusting.  
Walking over to the sink, he gave a long, empty stare at the mirror. What he saw, no matter how cliche it was, was not himself. The empty eyes, the same crimson color as the blood, dark and bloodshot, surrounded by bags that seemed to be getting darker and darker as time wore on. The pretty face, ruined by the burdens of life. He looked fifty at only fifteen.  
His full lips, cracked and dry, from the constant biting of his sharp teeth. His once lively, full cheeks, now hollow and sunken in. He looked like a ghost of his former self. Which was exactly what he was. A ghost.  
He wasn't really living, but he certainly wasn't dead. His eyes trailed to his hair, half covering his face, it's harsh white color matching almost perfectly with his pale, paper like skin. It reached halfway down his neck without his headband, sticking out in all odd directions, naturally. His neck, leading down into his sunken collar bones, which disappeared into his tee-shirt, the bones jutting out in a way that said 'I'm starved, and he won't feed me'. His eyes then trailed to his shoulders...  
And he flinched. the blood ran all the way up his arm, dirtying his sleeves. With slow, mechanical movements he removed his shirt, looking for a few more seconds of avoidance of looking at his forearm.  
Though, the sight of his torso did him no better. Hundreds and hundreds of scars lining his body, down his sides and across his chest. All kinds, straight from the blades, jagged and zigzag from the makeshift ones when he couldn't find a razor. The less exact, repeated ones from where he clawed at himself, as if he could tear his own skin right of. Then there was the most noticeable one, splayed across his stomach, which he had carved with an exacto knife. It read 'worthless' with curved, smooth letters, as if he had been just handwriting. The space around it was clear, as if only to draw attention to the word. His stomach itself was thin, to the point where his hip bones protruded out an inch or two than even first considered unhealthy. His eating habits were almost as bad as the cutting ones. He was never hungry, and he never ate. He couldn't remember his last meal. And he liked it that way. He deserved to be so thin, so disgusting. He was worthless, after all. Why should he get to eat? Who was he to eat food, knowing someone else out there could probably need it more?  
He wanted to look away, but he knew he couldn't. He deserved to see himself, see his ugliness. And he knew he had to look at his arm.  
So he finally did.  
Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it down. His pale skin, now crusted with dark brown, dried blood, all leading from a central point on his forearm. It was a deep gash, a thin layer crusted over it. It had split in one place, and driblets of crimson liquid were peaking out. It looked as if a bloody massacre had taken place, worse than it was probably even possible to make special-effects makeup look. The gash, deeper than any others surrounding it, swelled, the skin around it puffing. With a look of agony of his eyes, he forced himself to touch his arm, trailing slowly from his elbow to the cut, careful to not to apply any more pressure than a feather would. He touched it as if it were a delicate child, though it was different. The cut held no innocents what so ever a child would possess.  
This got Soul every time. He did the damage, but once it was done he couldn't bear himself. Each scar was filled with a hate; a hate so passionate it would make death itself cautious to approach. Though, along with the hate, there was something different. It was a feeling that Soul couldn't explain; one that made him not want the scars to go away. They were there, and they were a part of him. If he didn't have the scars, he was nothing. They were who he was. If he had the choice, he would keep them. They weren't necessarily something he was proud of, but they were his. It was a very intimate feeling. It was passionate.  
His motions became mechanical once again as he went through the motions of removing the blood with some paper towels, forcing himself to look away from the arm in the mirror. His eyes instantly fell on his real arm, never deriving from the cut. He stared with such an intensity, it felt like nobody could ever tear his eyes away. Even as he washed the blood off, he was careful to not touch it, and to never glance somewhere else. He felt blindly under the sink for the first aid supplies, and got the tape and bandages ready. He treated the cut with such gentleness and carefulness, as he stared transfixed.  
It was just a feeling that was indescribable to anyone who had never experienced it. If you were to ask Soul to even describe a fraction of it, he wouldn't have the right words. Having something you hate so much be so close, not wanting to let it go. It sounded confusing, but it was just the feeling. Sometimes feelings can't be described through words, and it was as simple as that.  
If you were to put it in an analogy, it would be like alcohol to an alcoholic. The alcoholic would see it, and want it, and need it. But he also knew there were other things that needed him more, maybe he had family, or some obligation.  
Soon, the alcohol would become his friend, along with his worst enemy. He would want it so bad, but hate it at the same time.  
It was an addiction, and it was really a love/hate disease you couldn't cure.  
That was the feeling Soul had. A love/hate one. He knew it was so uncool to have these emotions, but it wasn't something he could bare.  
A loud banging came at the door, and Soul jumped, a quick moment of panic before realizing he locked the door.  
"Soul, I'm home, and I brought dinner!" Maka yelled through the thick wood, and then he could hear her retreating footsteps. Soul sighed, finished bandaging, and cleaned up the rest of the blood. The razor he had used was still on the bathroom floor, and he used a paper towel to pick it up and throw it in the trash bin, not wanting to touch it, as if it were poison.  
Slipping his jacket on, he exited the bathroom. Maka was in the kitchen, unboxing various different foods she had picked up from what looked to be KFC. Soul's stomach let out a silent ache, but he knew he wouldn't eat. She handed him a plate and he started to fix himself a plate, taking as minimal as possible, as he hated wasting.  
It was ironic, really, he wasted so much already. The blood, the air he breathed. What difference did it matter if it was food?  
Taking his normal seat at the dinning table, he grabbed his fork immediately and started to shove the food around, placing it in a way to make it look as if there was less there. It was an art he was expert at.  
"How was your day?" Maka asked, taking her seat across from him as usual. She had ben out all day, planning with Tsubaki. They were organizing a huge sleep over that everyone in their group would attend, taking place at Kidd's house.  
"Cool, I guess," he said, putting a bit of mashed potatoes into his mouth and pretending to swallow before spitting it into his napkin. The food was like rubber on his tongue.  
"That's good. We're all set for the get together tomorrow. It'll be us, Tsubaki and BlackStar, and Liz and Patti and Kidd at his place," she informed him.  
"Sleepovers are so uncool," Soul mumbled, taking a sip of his water.  
"It will be good for us! All of us rarely get together at the same time, it will be good to spend time together," she replied. Soul 'hmm'ed and continued on pushing his food around, then getting up to go to the kitchen and dumping the food into the garbage can, moments before Maka entered. He put his plate in the sink and disappeared off into his room. He didn't catch the worried look Maka sent his way when she threw her own leftovers in the garbage, seeing his food piled on top of the trash.  
He immediately went over to his bed, exhausted. His emotional breakdown had cost him, he was out within minutes. There had been no real trigger in his sudden panic, he had just been sitting and watching some crime show on TV, when he felt it coming on. The need to cut was random, and snuck up on him at the most random and innocent of times.  
Before he drifted off he mentally calculated. That was the third time he'd lapsed within the last week.  
It was getting worse.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't even dawn when his alarm went off.  
An 'alarm' being, of course, an annoyingly heavy Blair jumping onto his torso, effectively cutting off his breathing supply.  
Soul let out a groan as the cat-turned-woman landed on him, a feeling of being suffocated immediately following.  
"Get off me you damn cat, you weigh more than a truck!" He yelled, squirming.  
Blair jut out her bottom lip in a sort of pout.  
"Aww, my Soul! Please don't be mad at me! I just came to give you a good morning!" she said, her breasts rubbing against his chest.  
"I bet BlackStar is less annoying than you," he spat, pushing her shoulders with a bit more force than really was necessary.  
"That's rude!" she yelled, getting off of him and plopping down on the floor next to his bed, crossing her arms and making her bottom lip puff out even more. If she pushed it out any more, Soul would be tempted to tell her to stop before a bird came and perched on her lip. Her nightgown slipped down to reveal more of her large breasts, no doubt intentionally. Any man would be drooling at the sight of a sexy kitty sitting and pouting at their feet.  
Soul was unaffected.  
"Blair, leave. Go bug Maka or something," he muttered, rubbing his chest, inhaling a bit more deeply than necessary to stress his point.  
"She keeps her door locked. I can't get in," she said.  
"Maybe I should start following her example," he replied.  
Blair let out a loud sigh before getting up and slinking her way out of his room, swaying her butt in a sensual way. Soul was unamused.  
He glanced over at his clock, it reading '5:46 a.m.' He sighed; Maka would be getting up in almost an hour to start getting ready. Grabbing a set of clean clothes, he slugged off to the bathroom. Not glancing at the mirror as he undressed, he turned on the shower, and sat in his boxers waiting for the water to heat up. He cursed their bad plumbing system, living in Death City. After the water reached an acceptable temperature, he climbed in. Letting the warm water cascade down his back, he closed his eyes and tipped his head backwards, feeling the bliss of the hot water cascading through his white locks.. His mind didn't particularly focus on anything, and he let his thoughts just wander in what some might call free association. He didn't want to think about anything special, so he just thought of everything.  
There was that party at Kidd's tonight. Kidd hosted a lot of these parties for them, at least once a month. Maka really made it sound like a big deal, but Soul didn't really care for them. He remember the last of Kidd's parties, they had played Truth or Dare. It was becoming a ritual for every get together, and Soul quit the game last time after he was dared to strip and jump into the freezing outside pool, to which he was called a chicken. If only his friends knew that it wasn't about the cold water, but the scares that littered his whole body that he would have exhibited around for the whole group. BlackStar laughed and called him a coward, to which he gladly agreed.  
If only they knew.  
Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like for someone to find out. Would they be shocked? Probably. He could imagine all his different friend's reactions. Maka would freak, Tsubaki would look sad and concerned, Kidd would pretend like it didn't bother him and never again meet his eyes..  
There would be one definite reaction, though. They would attempt to force him to stop.  
And so he would never tell.  
Sometimes he just wished he could feel the warmth of other people around him to drive away the loneliness. There was a barrier that was solidly formed between him and his friends. He wished that the secret didn't feel like such a burden all the time, weighing down on him like a ton of bricks. It seemed to constantly plague his thoughts, such as at this moment. He would be walking down a street, and would find himself glancing at other people's arms to see if they fell a victim to the razor as he did, but there was never anybody. When he stood late night at the convenience store, bandages and disinfectant in his arms, he looked at other people's baskets to see if anyone else had the same things, as if somebody would notice him and come up, saying something about it and confiding in him, to make him feel less alone. It was a one in a million chance.  
But of course, it never happened like that.  
He was doomed to forever feel the pain and endure it by himself. There would be no magical meeting of someone who had the same problems. He was alone, and he deserved to be. He was worthless and disgusting, and he didn't have any reason for someone to reach out to him, he was a lost cause.  
He stopped himself there, opening his eyes and shaking his head. He couldn't think like that. This free association was dangerous for him, he could feel the first nibbs of the panic brusling inside him. He tried to quickly distract himself, as he didn't want to have a relapse right now. For god sakes, it had only been a few hours since his last one! He was definitely getting worse.  
But the panic soon came, and he could feel it. He knew fighting it was useless, he was going to give in. He was going to cut. He knew he didn't have as much time as he had last night, so he had to make it quick. It was a good thing he was in the shower, the mess would wash itself down the drain when he was done. He gripped the edge of the tub as he felt around, finding a hidden razor behind the hair care products. He had a lot of these hidden blades, scattered around, placed expertly. Even if Maka stumbled upon one, she probably wouldn't think anything of it. He could feel the need to cut closing in on him, tightening his throat and restricting his breathing. He NEEDED it. Now. Fumbling clumsily, he brought it over to his side, sparing his already freshly injured arm. He didn't really feel the worse emotional pain. This was a different kind of cutting, it wasn't something to block out the overwhelming feelings. This was the addiction of the sting. This was the dangerous part, the part that scared him.  
He was doing it, with no real motive besides the addiction. The addiction was in ways, worse than when he did it because of the emotions. He couldn't stop himself, he felt the yearn for it. He wanted the sting, he wanted to see his own blood. It was sick in a masochistic way, he felt as if he deserved to give into his addiction. He was a junky.  
He tapped into his feelings so the pain he felt was accompanied. The worthlessness. All he could feel was the worthlessness. He needed to think those thoughts. He was disgusting, and vile. He didn't deserve this blood. He deserved the pain. He was his own tormentor, in a world of pain.  
That was it. This was what he was craving. He moved the razor across his skin, softly and then more aggressively as the blade dragged on. He opened his eyes to watch, seeing the line of red slowly appear onto the porcelain white flesh. He let out a quiet hiss. He was like a druggie with his next line, the feeling was again, indescribable. He stood for a few moments before positioning the razor an inch below the first cut, and let his mind go free as he pressed the edge down again. And again. And again.  
Just one more.  
And again.  
He couldn't stop himself. It was all just too good. He felt it, the sting. He watched the blood ooze down his side, mixing with the water and becoming a lighter pink color, washing down his body and down the drain. Every cut and the color of the water turned more opaque with red.  
He knew he should stop and finish his shower before Maka got up, but he couldn't stop himself. Before he knew it, there were six identical cuts on his hip, each red with the mixture of blood and water. He restrained himself from bringing the razor down again, biting his lip. It split with the pressure from his razor teeth, but he ignored it. Leaning his head onto the tile wall, he put his hand over the cuts, closing his eyes. He came down from his worked up state, breathing shallowly through the shower steam. He stayed like that for a few moments before slowly lifting his head and rinsing off his side, the blood running and running before gradually turning lighter shades of pink, until the water was once again clear. Soul shut off the shower and stepped out, shivering at the cold air as hit his wet body. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around himself. He kept his eyes closed as he walked over to the mirror, a surreal feeling following him. He lazily looked up at his own dripping wet reflection. His hair was a dark gray color, the wet strands weighted down and clinging to his face. His hands holding his towel up clenched before letting go, dropping it to the floor so he could fully examine himself.  
He was a mess. All the cuts ran down his arms starting at his shoulder, and down his chest from right below his collarbone. There wasn't an inch of pale skin untouched by scars, with the exception of in the middle yet again where there was a clear space surrounding the word on his stomach. His ribs were clearly visible, and his hip bones jutted out in a sickening fashion. The cuts continues all down his legs and inner thighs, stopping at his knees. He stared at himself for quite some time, transfixed. No matter how many times he looked at himself, he would never get over the feeling he got when he did. His body felt alien to him, it's only purpose was to hold his scars. It was strange, his scars were more important to him than his body. He had given up his body to his addiction; to his pain. Soul wasn't his body. He was his scars.  
Lightly, he traced over the ones starting on his chest, downwards. He knew he was suppose to be hurrying, but he didn't think about it at the time. He wondered idly if he would ever sit and count them all, but he knew it was an impossible task. There were so many, some overlapping others, some faded and then were some that weren't visible, overtaken by others. His fingers made their way down his chest and sides, saving his stomach for last. His finger trailed to the outside of the bubble of unblemished skin, before picking up and touching the 'W', slowly tracing it.  
'W', he remembered, the pain of the little knife in his hands. The starting point was more faded than the rest, from where he had started unsure. The cut got deeper from then on, leaving a permanent mark.  
'ORTH' was also deep, the same amount of pressure. Soul could think back, almost as if it were a movie in his head, and he pictured himself with the knife, slowly dragging it across his skin with a precise motion.  
The 'LESS' however, was noticeably more of a scar. His fingers traced the smooth cuts, his eyes following. He saw himself, his hand tightening until his knuckles were white as he pressed with such a force, as if all his anger and hate could be expressed in the slow motions of the knife. His feelings, his soul all went into the sharp edge as he mutilated his own skin, decorating it with red.  
Soul snapped out of his almost daze as he finished the word, looking back up into his own eyes.  
Soul had always loved his own eyes. They were a color that reminded him. They were the same exact shade of fresh blood, and he often admired the comparison. He loved them, and they were the only part of himself except his scars that he felt he wanted. He could be in a public place and just take a glance into a mirror, to see the reflection of his eyes. They were what kept him going when he couldn't pull out a razor. The color reminded him of those alone moments he spent with his scars. The color was a promise of the sting that was later to come.  
Soul tore away from his reflection and dressed quickly, not wanting to make Maka suspicious if she had woken up while he was in the shower and was getting impatient. Putting on his signature red skinny jeans and black and yellow jacket, he left his hair wet to air dry on it's own. It didn't matter how much time he put into his appearance, he never really saw himself anyway.  
Sure enough, when he exited the bathroom, his blonde haired partner was lounging in the kitchen still in her pajamas, clutching a cup of steaming coffee.  
"Morning," she greeted him, followed by a yawn and a large sip. He gave her a nod of acknowledgement, his wet hair flinging drips onto his face. He scowled irritatedly, opening the fridge to browse the food he knew he wouldn't be consuming. There was only one that was worth looking forward to for Soul, and that was the anticipation of his next... Relapse.  
For so many burdens he bore, that was his reward. His own self-destructing mind kept him on the edge of his seat. The pretend eating, the lying,the fake facade of coolness. Long sleeved shirts during summer, the constant feeling of dread and suspicion that someone had figured it out. For all the secrets and lies, he pain of the sting and the adrenaline rush that came with the scarlet stained blade was worth it. The addiction was worth it, in a sick, twisted way.  
Like an alcoholic father whose family had been ripped away from him. His very addiction was both his salvation and destruction. Every drink was more numbing than the next, each sip a sweet bliss. Though, with every sip was another brick he added to the wall dividing him from his family. Each sip was another agitating poke into the belly of a monster, soon to explode and wreak havoc. And he sat alone with a bottle, a grim satisfaction in his heart. He was alone with nothing left; except his sweet addiction to keep him company. He gives into his addiction, and in a way he is happier there than with the rest of the world.  
Soul felt the same way, alone in a room with nothing but his addiction. His friends still surrounded him, but there was still that wall that he built up cut by cut. And that wall would never be broken down, unless someone were to find out about his addiction. The the walls would be gone and they would be a part of his own dark reality.  
Soul was determined to never let that happen, however.  
Maka watched him intently as he browsed the refrigerator, showing no signs of repenting. Soul let out an involuntary sigh before grabbing an apple and closing the door.  
"What's the plan today?" he asked, bringing the apple to his mouth, The shiny green skin taunted him as he opened his mouth in preparation to bite.  
"We have a mission in the city today, and Kidd's party is tonight,: she replied, sipping her coffee once more and tearing her eyes away from him to look at the day planner spread out on the island counter. He brought the apple down from his mouth to reply, sucessfully using his nicely developed 'fake out' trick. He often used it when Maka started to show interests in his eating habits. He would get ready to take a bite before starting up a conversation, and casually start talking every time he was about to eat. It created the allusion he was eating, while all he did was look like he was intently focused on their topic and not on his food. Maka was usually none the wiser.  
"What time does Kidd's party start?" he asked, already forming excuses to protest not going.  
"It starts at seven, we'll be sleeping over. And there is no way you're getting out of it, either. You skipped the last one, and the one before that. We need to see our friends once and awhile," she replied, scowling at him in a way Soul could only describe as nagging and bitchy. He often thought of her this way, if not only just to take his momentary annoyance out on her. She was his best friend and his meister, but their personalities clashed way too much for him to handle. She was like the scolding parent, telling him to clean his room or finish his dinner. It grated on his nerves most of the time.  
He returned her scowl with his own, casually setting his apple on the counter. Maka rolled her eyes and put her now empty mug in the sink, and headed off for the bathroom. Soul didn't move for a while- not because he couldn't, but because he really had nothing to do. He stood still, staring down at the piece of fruit with a childlike intensity. He distantly heard the sound of a door close and the shower start up, but he paid no mind. Kidd's party? He would have to go, if not to keep up appearances. It was a nuisance to him; he really didn't see any benefit of going. What reason was there to? They would sit around and play games and drink. They would chat about their experiences and lives. Kidd would retail the details of his latest mission, Patty adding her input when the need arose. Liz would sneak out for a cigarette, Tsubaki would busy herself in the kitchen with Maka, making snacks. Blackstar would sit and preach about his god like qualities to any who would listen. What would Soul do? Sit and look bored and not speak? That was all he usually did. What else _could _he do? Talk? He had nothing to say. His addiction took up most of his life, and somehow it had consumed his mind without him noticing. When was the last time he thought of something besides his razor, or how he was going to skip dinner with avoiding suspicion? It had been months. Years, even. His whole being was consumed around his scars, what did normal conversations even consist of? Sports, clothes, TV shows? When was the last time he played basketball with his friends or followed a TV show? What determined his clothing choices; the scars littering his arms? He wasn't on normal standards by any means, so how would he be able to appear that he was? He would sit and speak little, playing indifferent to his peers and wish for the night to be over. That was the only set plan he could think of. So that was what he would do.  
He heard the shower turn off and the blowdryer start, and within minutes Maka was entering the kitchen, ready to go. He saw her pause at the fact that he had not moved, so he shifted his weight off the counter and walked over to the island, grabbing his wallet and silently heading out the door without a word. After a moment, she followed him. He walked out the front door, down to his bike. His bike was a Harley Davidson, given to him by his parents when he first moved out. He wasn't really into bikes, they were just transportation. Though, by the shiny exterior, it must have cost a lot.  
"Soul."  
He looked over at his partner, pausing. In her hand she held his apple; the one he hadn't bitten into. The look on her face was unreadable.  
"Thanks," he said, reaching out and snatching it from her hand. She said nothing more as he put his helmet on, and only after he was fully on it did she come over and grab her own helmet and board. He started the engine and they took off, in a quiet and uncomfortable silence. Soul felt like a scolded child who had done something very wrong. There was a dread filling his stomach in place of substance. He would have to be more careful than he already was with Maka. She couldn't find out he wasn't eating, because if she found out he wasn't eating, she would find out about the cutting. And nobody could know about the cutting.  
Nobody.  
They rode down the street at max speed, dawn just shining over the horizon to chase away the darkness of the night. Soul shook with an unknown emotion.  
All he had to do was complete his mission today and get through Kidd's party, and then he could retreat to the warmth of his bed, where he could block out the world with a dreamless sleep.  
He would have to bear his burdens until then.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A quick note, this story is dedicated to my Sugar Tits, for it's based on the RP we started a while back. She's one of the real masterminds behind this. Her fanfiction name is TaeminnieLav, so go and give her loves.  
**Soul sighed and leaned up against his bike, staring up at the tall impending building in front of him. The mission had been as mundane as all the rest, nothing that was life threatening or exciting. Though Soul wasn't sure he could handle fighting or excitement, when he felt as if he just wanted to curl up in a ball and never face the world again.  
Typical depressing outlook on the world, I know.  
Maka, who had been reporting in about their mission, walked out of the building and made her way over to him.  
Soul waited patiently with the blankest of stares plastered across his face, his eyes just locked ahead of him on nothing in particular. He hadn't really noticed her presence until she made a move to get back on the back, making him both mentally and physically jump. He turned his attention slowly back to her to make sure she had the helmet on, not wanting her to be in the path of danger in case of a crash, never mind himself. He would hate to see her hurt, though his own body didn't matter whether be it inflicted by someone else or himself.  
They didn't communicate much to each other besides a simple, "Head to Kidd's now," and a nod. They drove the short distance to the large mansion, the sun setting on the horizon. The normal street goers of Death City were absent; all at home with their families and the such. The only sounds to be heard by their ears were the roar of the bike and their heavy breathing. Soul was aware, not for the first time, of Maka's arms encircling his stomach from behind. Her arms lay right over his newly formed scars from the shower this morning, and he felt the sting. He flinched. It was surprising how much cuts hurt when he wasn't in the heat of the moment; the pain felt more intense when the addiction or the emotions weren't there to counter it. It hurt, and not in a way he thrived on. It was pain, but not really pain. It was difficult to explain to even his own mind.  
Soul grit his sharp teeth and pressed on, trying his damned hardest to ignore the pain, at least for now. He had to stay focused on the road, it wasn't only him on the bike. The silence between them drove his mind closer and closer to relapsing into thoughts of the cuts, the scars, the need, the want. He kept trying to shake it from his mind but the silence wouldn't have anything of it. He bit into his lip, one of his teeth piercing the skin providing a momentary distraction, as he pulled up outside of Kidd's house. The lights were shining through the windows, loud voices and music could be heard from inside. Soul wanted to break the silence between him and his partner, but he couldn't find any words to say. The apple she'd handed him before they left still burned a hole in his jacket pocket, he'd have to rid himself of it quickly.  
She got off his bike and removed her helmet, making a failed attempt to straighten out her ponytails. He watched her with an amused look, and when she saw his face she shot him a glare. His smile quickly faded as the apple knocked against his leg when he dismounted the bike. It was like a representation of a heavy guilt.  
"What's wrong?" She asked, surprising him. He lifted up the seat of the motorcycle to remove their overnight bags from the storage space.  
"This party is so uncool, we should just stay home," he said, fabricating the lie. She accepted his answer is stride.  
"We haven't seen any of them for weeks. We're not leaving."  
"You saw Tsubaki yesterday," he replied, handing her the solid grey backpack that contained her clothing.  
"Yes, but you didn't," she said, frowning. They were quiet for a moment before she opened her mouth again. "You know, Soul-" he could sense what was coming. He quickly started up the driveway to Kidd's house.  
"Shut up and let's go, we're late."  
It was way too close for him. He really hated being confronted, much less about her suspicions. He trudged up to the door, giving the panel of wood two quick heavy raps. Now he just had to wait for someone to come to the door. He dreaded that moment of awkward silence where something could be said and everything could fall apart.  
Although not long after, before Maka had time to catch up to him at the door, a certain blue haired assassin answered the door.  
"SOUL AND MAKA ARE HERE!" He yelled into to the house, and out. His voice carried far so probably the neighbor's four houses down heard him. Soul rolled his eyes.  
"Yeah, Yeah, we're here." He sighed.  
"Though I didn't want to be.." He mumbled the last part under his breath in almost a whisper.  
It seemed both occupants had heard him, to which Maka glared and BlackStar looked surprised.  
"Why would you not want to be here? The amazing BlackStar is here! Come inside so I can tell you of my heroic rescue yesterday," he said, pulling Soul in by the arm. He cringed, not from pain but from the physical contact. He felt as if the wall in between him and his friends was actually tangible, and to have someone touch him so casually was like a shock of ice water hitting him. He quickly withdrew his arm and followed inside.  
The house had been made over to accommodate guests- or at least that's what Soul thought. Maybe Kidd's house was always so neat and tidy. Now that Soul thought about it, it probably was, due to the shinigami's obsessive compulsive disorder. Many occupants littered the living room, red solo cups scattered on tables, blankets already strewn out on the floor for the impending 'sleepover'. Patty was sitting on them, already clad in her frilly pink pajamas. Kidd, Liz, and Tsubaki were all chatting quietly together, and looked up when they entered.  
"The life of the party is here," Liz said, smiling as she took a rather large swig from a cup. Kidd rose to greet his new guests.  
Soul faked his best uninterested smile. He glanced around, backpack clutched tightly over his shoulder. He'd packed bandages and gauze and any other medical things in a poorly crafted secret pocket, just in case there was a time where he needed to relapse. He hated that he already expected it to happen, like he didn't trust in himself to go without it for one night. But it was an addiction, and addictions are bad habits hard to break, so he brushed the thought from his mind and set the bag down next to the door, hoping no one would be curious enough to go through it. He glanced back at Maka to see if she still had the same soul-wrenching scowl, which she had. She carried her stuff over and greeted Kidd, then joined the two others on the blanket. Soul tried to avoid as much contact and talking as possible. His mind was so on edge, he wasn't sure what could set him off again.  
Tsubaki almost immediately headed for the kitchen, pulling Maka along with her. Nevermind that she wasn't the one hosting the party, the weapon was always the one serving the snacks and drinks, as was in her motherly nature. That, and the fact that these sleepovers were when her and Maka could gossip and chat about everything. Soul tried to look interested in BlackStar's heroic tale of the kitten he rescued, but failed. He tried to strike up a conversation with Kidd.  
"Great party man, really. Love the furniture, by the way," he said, desperately grasping for a subject. He cringed in on himself at the stupid topic choice. The furniture? So uncool. Kidd didn't seem to mind though, and started in on his tale of the antique coffee table that his father had bought thousands of years ago in his travels. Soul cursed himself, as this was even worse than listening to BlackStar's ranting. Liz seemed to sense his frustration and gave him a sarcastic smirk. Patty seemed quiet, and when Soul looked over, she was looking through Maka's bag, which the blonde girl had abandoned.  
Soul had an internal moment of panic. An impending fear filling his chest that she'd make it to his bag, so he tried to casually make his way over to his back to pluck it from the ground and place it back on his shoulder, a safer place. Inside his wall. Kidd now going on about the pictures and how they were hand painted to be precisely symmetrical and BlackStar moving onto his intense training explanation. Maka and Tsubaki giggled from the kitchen. Soul's mind started to race, panic starting over him. "I-I uh.. I'm going to go, Uh, change. Into pajamas." He said in a low voice. Him mind was desperately trying to grasp an excuse to get away. To get his bag. To get to the small razor hidden in the 'secret pocket' Soul had made. The panic was making him feel the need to cut to try and get rid of itself, like even the panic hated itself and wanted death.  
He turned to make his way down the hall to the bathroom.  
"Wait," someone said, and he froze in his place.  
"Don't be a loser, it's early! Let's all play a game!" BlackStar yelled, laughing at Patty's sudden excitement, despite the fact that he had just indirectly called her a loser.  
"LET'S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK!" She yelled, still holding up the contents of Maka's bag.  
"I really have to-" Soul started, backing away. BlackStar rushed over and dragged him over by the arm, tearing his backpack away and throwing it into the corner. Soul was so dazed, he didn't have time to react.  
"What's this, Kidd?" Patty asked, holding up a small package. It was a tampon.  
"Oh uhm, well-" Kidd started, flabbergasted. Liz laughed, and Maka and Tsubaki entered, giggling. It was so much action all at once, Soul could feel his throat constricting.  
"Everyone settle down!" BlackStar said, pulling Soul down on the couch next to him.  
"We're playing Truth or Dare."  
"But I want to play hide and seek!" Patty said, waving the tampon in the air. Maka caught sight of it and rushed over, gathering her things and snatching the offending tampon out of her hand.  
"We're playing Truth or Dare," BlackStar insisted.  
"I'm going to the bathroom," Soul said, rising. BlackStar pulled him down again. Sweat was starting to form on his neck, and so help god he started hyperventilating.  
"No, Soul is first," BlackStar insisted.  
"BlackStar, truth or dare?" Soul asked, quickly.  
"Dare!" BlackStar declared proudly. Of course, the ninja would never turn down a chance for a dare.  
"I DARE you to let me go to the bathroom," Soul said, sneering. BlackStar laughed.  
"When a dude's gotta go, a dude's gotta go," he said, letting go of Soul. He quickly retrieved his backpack.  
"Wait, what do you need your backpack for?" Maka asked, watching him.  
"I told you guys I was going to change. I'm still going to change, doesn't mean... This... has to stop, I mean, Patty's in her pajamas, why can't I be?" He rattled out, sounding a bit defensive about the situation, but it was only because he was so panicked at the moment and didn't want anyone really questioning his need for his backpack. He bit his lip, hoping it would be an acceptable answer. BlackStar groaned. "Hurry UP then!" He yelled, Maka glared at BlackStar since she wasn't done questioning Soul.  
He hurried off to the bathroom, clicking the lock as silently as he possibly could. He dug through his backpack with a panicked intensity no one could match.  
Grabbing his razor, he tossed the bag to the floor and quickly ripped off his shirt, it feeling like ribbons of cloth just trying to keep him from breathing. By now his breathing was very off. Without much thinking, he glanced down and just dug the sharp blade into his hip, not realizing how deep he was actually going until blood just poured out from the wound and down his leg and thighs. His hands shook violently, as did his whole body. Soul froze, just coming to the realization of his thoughtless action.  
"Damn.." He let out a quick, sharpened breath. "Maybe.." He thought out loud. He pulled his phone from his pocket and pulled up Kidd's number. He quickly entered in words. 'Hey, I ripped my pajama pants, could you bring me needle and thread?'  
He added pressure to the wound as he waited for either a response or for Kidd to come to the door with the said items. About 3 minutes later, there was a soft knock with Kidd at the door.  
"I only have black, is that alright?" Soul unlocked the door.  
"Yeah, perfect." he said quickly, just opening the door enough to get the thread and needle, then he shut and locked the door again. He shakily laced the needle, it being the only thing right now he could really do without having to go to the hospital. Soul looked down and gulped, pushing the needle and thread into his skin and stitching up the wound. it was by no means sanitary, but at least he wouldn't bleed out.  
The image was gruesome: His poorly stitched flesh still raw and bloody. He tore his eyes away, snapping the thread. He was shaking all over, a mix of adrenaline, despair, and panic. He still felt the sickening urge- he wanted this sharp blade to dig into his flesh again and tear it open, so hard he would scream out in pain mixed with a sick pleasure. He wanted to feel the hurt; he wanted to feel it so bad he could almost taste it. Though, he could literally taste it now, there was a bit of blood coming up the back of his throat. He was in such a blind panic, all he could think was 'Cut, do it, do it again, you have to do it.' He brought the razor up again, a far ways above before. He pressed down, hissing as the razor bit his flesh. He was beyond comprehension now, completely overtaken by emotion. Coherent thoughts weren't possible anymore, the words 'cut' and 'bleed' no longer even forming in his brain. This was very dangerous, if not from cutting too deep than the fact that his friends were right beyond the door. They were so close, he felt so... vulnerable. So naked. Soul had made four identical cuts across his side, above his hip bone. He shook so hard now that he dropped the now fully drenched razor, his body convulsing. He gulped in air greedily, putting his hands on the sink to steady himself. His eyes crashed shut, and he stood for what seemed like an eternity until his breathing shallowed and he stopped shaking, for the most part. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up into the mirror, staring dead at the image before him. The bathroom looked like a murder scene, scarlet red covering porcelain white. The sink, the floors, his body all smeared in blood. Soul felt sticky and dirty, disgusting. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't even form a good enough plan to start moving and clean up or treat his wounds. He just stood and stared, mind a jumble. He tried to go for his backpack, but his body would not respond. He raised a shaky hand and touched his face, watching as the image followed in the mirror. He looked borderline psychotic. His eyes looked of those of a wild, lost soul. The crimson was unusually bright, pupils dilated. His hand left a smear of red on his cheek, giving him a demonistic appearance. He could see someone broken in the mirror. He could see someone dead. Someone who was pushed to their limit, someone who was well beyond normal comprehension. Those wild eyes, the blood. He looked like an animal; a monster. And that was what he felt he was, a monster. Who was he to sit here and get off in his sick, sadistic way when his happy friends were sitting just outside, laughing and having a good time? Why should he bring such misery around them? They were so innocent, he was so jaded. He was truly in a whole nother world- a world of darkness. This was disgusting and filthy- he was disgusting and filthy. What would they think if they knew? If one of them just walked in right now and saw him the way he was at this moment? He couldn't even imagine it.  
Soul took a few more minutes of staring at his eyes. It usually brought him at least a soft calmness, but now they were nothing but a reminder of how disgusting he was. He let his eyes flutter closed, the blood still oozing from the wounds. He was in a frozen state; a state of shock.  
In the other room, the group was in laughter, though BlackStar could feel something off. Soul was taking ages, and there was a certain smell and feeling that hung in the air that just signalled trouble. He stood up slowly.  
"I'm gonna check on Soul. It shouldn't take this long to piss and change." He mumbled, walking down the hall, to the door. Soul was still motionless, though he had finally opened his eyes yet again. There was a loud bang on the door, causing him to snap out of his daze and jump a mile in the air.  
"SOUL. THE FUCK IS TAKING SO LONG? IT'S BEEN LIKE HALF AN HOUR, MAN!" BlackStar yelled angrily through the door. Soul's head snapped to the side just in time to see the doorknob turning, and by the time he could have rushed over to prevent it from opening, it was too late. There was a moment of frozen silence, both boys in complete and utter shock. Soul was the first to move, without thinking. He pulled the blue haired boy inside, slamming the door behind him before another curious onlooker wandered onto the scene. He stood facing the door, not trusting himself to turn around. He had lost it. Someone had found out. BlackStart knew. He KNEW. Soul couldn't think; he couldn't breathe. He could feel panic rushing over him. What was he going to do? The only thoughts he could conjure was 'oh god, oh god, oh god..'  
BlackStar was uncharistically quiet, Soul was counting his blessings that the assassin hadn't automatically started yelling and screaming when he saw the blood.  
A moment of silence stretched between them for what seemed like an eternity. Numbly, Soul turned to the other occupant of the room, terrified at what he'd see. How would he react? Soul couldn't even think.  
What he saw sent ice down his spine. BlackStar stood, staring at his body. His eyes traced over the hundreds of scars that littered his sides, stomach, arms, chest. He could practically see the wheels turning in the blue haired boy's head, each gear clicking into place. Soul felt as if he was under an examiner's knife, being analyzed inch by inch. He felt so vulnerable. The walls he had built.. They were now torn down. BlackStar was in his reality, and Soul was out on display for him to see. Soul watched as his eyes wandered, no emotions portraying on the other boy's face. His eyes moved quickly, stopping finally at his stomach, where the biggest scar of all was located. 'worthless' spelled out across his body, for those hungering eyes to see. Unconsciously Soul brought his arms up to cover his stomach, clutching his sides tightly, ignoring the stinging pain that was coming from his side under his hand. Blood oozed between his fingers, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had been found out. The even IDEA of someone finding out was not even a possibility in his mind before, and now he couldn't even fathom that it was happening. It felt so surreal.  
It was certain, however, that BlackStar was avoiding looking at his face. His eyes wandered his body, never straying too far upwards to look him in the eye. A million things rushed into Soul's head at once. Was he disgusted? He wouldn't even look him in the eye. He saw the foul existence that was making up Soul's entire being, and he found it revolting. Soul could tell. In only a few moments, in what seemed like hours, BlackStar's whole perception of Soul had changed from a quiet, too-cool-for-you badass, to a disgusting, worthless, self-mutilating junky. Soul felt like he had nothing left to grasp, like his whole world was crumbling and exploding beneath him. Soul's eyes could only focus on BlackStar's judging expression. He'd never seen a look so intense on that boys face ever before. It was driving him insane, making him either want to curl up and die, or run far away and start over again. But he couldn't afford the latter option. Soul let his head and gaze drop, like a scolded child that had done something VERY wrong. BlackStar's eyes still refused to meet that of Souls. Was he going to never speak to him again? Was this big assassin that was one of his best friends going to just throw him out like the garbage he was? Soul's mind raced on, running a 100 miles a second.  
"What the FUCK is going on?" a voice yelled, making both boys jump. In a split second, BlackStar's eyes rose to meet his, and then were quickly downcast again before Soul had the chance to decode them.  
Liz was standing outside the door, banging on it. Soul reached over quickly and locked the door, to prevent any further intrusions. Seconds later Liz did try the door, and let out a grunt of frustration. Footsteps could be heard walking away, then a loud "SOUL AND BLACKSTAR ARE GETTING IT ON, GUYS. THEY LOCKED THE DOOR." Soul cringed at the crude statement, then focused back at the problem at hand.  
BlackStar was now openly staring at his face, and it was Soul to look away now. He was shameful, disgusting, dirty. And now BlackStar knew. He suddenly didn't want to read the assassin's eyes.  
The possibly worst part of all of this was that BlackStar hadn't reacted. He hadn't gone yelling or screaming for help, or tell him how disgusting he was. He was just STANDING there. And looking.  
"... Fucking say something, will you?" Soul finally spit out, his voice cracking. He was shaking again.  
"You're a fucking idiot, man," BlackStar replied after a moment, and Soul's stomach plummeted. He knew it was coming, he knew this was it. BlackStar hated him, and he was going to tell. Everybody was going to know. They'd all find who Soul truly was. He was a body of scars; of pain. He brought nothing but sadness and misery, and the others would soon know.  
A very uncharismatic tear slid out from the corner of his crimson colored eye. If BlackStar told, he would truly be alone. There wouldn't be just a wall separating him and his friends- there would be NO friends. There would be nothing for the wall to keep out. Because nobody would be left for him.  
He deserved it.  
"Please don't tell anyone," he pleaded quietly. He knew that he deserved it, but the little clutches of his mind wouldn't let go. He wanted desperately to cling to the little normalcy he had.  
BlackStar stared at him for a minute longer, trying to find more words to say. He'd never seen the white haired boy look so helped, so just... utterly broken before. And no matter how much he wanted to believe it wasn't true and just pretend this hadn't happened, this sight would never be erased from his mind. It was forever stuck, like a plaguing reminder of the secrets some people held. Soul waited for any kind of response to his whimpers and pleas. But he was met with none, just a staring blue haired assassin. More and more salty droplets poured from his eyes, almost as viciously as the blood had been. Soul was terrified at this moment, and his mind could only think about one thing. Someone now knew. And there was no taking it back, no rewind button, nothing.  
Somebody knew.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Okay, hey there. So this story has been adopted by someone else. Yes, you heard me, this child has been taken out of my custody. Tear c':  
****The lovely TaeminnieLove, the other father to my baby, is now taking over. We're keeping him here for the purpose of not having to split it all up, though. So you can continue reading off this fic if you're following it and all that shit. Just letting you know, my Sugar Tits is writing this now, the chapters are not mine. Go look this lovely human being under the name TaeminnieLove on FF.N, or on like, Tumblr or some shit. Same username. Kay? Go look. Now. Give loves. All the loves. Go.**

**No, wait. Read the chapter and then go. Yeah. Do that instead. **

** Enjoy~**

* * *

The blue haired assassin only barely met his gaze. "What.. is this..?" he murmured under his breathe, honestly just talking to himself at this point, trying to process what exactly he was seeing. Soul let his gaze drop down to the tiled floor with blood droplets covering it. His body shook uncontrollably from the amount of blood he'd lost and how cold it made his faltered porcelain skin. Without any type of warning at all, Black Star's expression changed from one of worry to one of disappointment and anger.

"Soul Eater, how could you POSSIBLY let this shit happen to yourself? How in your RIGHT MIND do you think that this would ever be a good way out!?" Soul physically flinched at the venom filled words that Black Star spat at him. The assassin continued to yell and scream at him but Soul's mind faded it out, his own thoughts of self hatred covering up the words Black Star injected under his skin.

_"See. You are worthless. Hated. Unforgivable. Friendless. Disowned. You are alone. You'll never amount to anything good. Even your best friend can't stand the sight of you now. He knows. He'll tell everyone and you'll be alone. Forever."_

Tears welled up in the weapon's bloodshot eyes. The screaming faded back to an audible state for Soul. "-COULD FUCKING DIE FROM THIS, HOW DO YOU THINK THAT'D MAKE EVERYONE ELSE FEEL!?" Soul paused at the vibrations hitting his ears. He knew the assassin couldn't have just said that. Black Star hated everything about him now, right? There was no way he'd just let those words leave his mouth.

Soul let his gaze wander up to that of Black Star's face. An angry expression with tear streaming down from unrealistically sadden eyes. Soul could feel the guilt and regret sinking in so much faster than it normally did. Then his vision started to blur and his head felt light and heavy at the same time. The weapon's legs were begging to give out, his arms desperately trying to grip at the walls for any kind of support, but they seemed to move just out of reach any time he raised a hand toward them, like they too wanted nothing to do with him. His breathing became heavy more laboured Soul's eyes fought to stay open against the want crashing down on his to close them and let his mind rest for now.

The assassin could see his wavering movements and knew the weapon was about to crash land on the floor. Quickly, he reach out to catch him in his arms right before he hit the ground or anything else that could potentially hurt him. He didn't believe this at all. How could his best friend have hidden this from him and bore such a heavy burdened secret such as this one? Did he honestly want to do this to himself or did he think it was the only way out? Did he want to die? The Black Star pushed the questions that quickly piled in his mind aside for now, having to have a clear mind for tending to his injured friend.

He looked down at the crudely doctored gashes that littered Soul's under hip in an almost artistic manner. Candy red iron filled liquid that had changed to a maroon against a bright pale and white scarred canvas. It was sickeningly beautiful. He looked around for something other than a white towel to clean up. Laying the boy against the cold floor, he stood, ransacking the cabinets for peroxide, gauze and medical tape, knowing someone as high class as Kidd should have that around. Black Star found everything he needed and a black wash cloth for cleaning the blood off Soul and bleach to clean up the bathroom afterwards. A task that was very daunting and going to be tedious.

Wetting the cloth he ever so gently dabbed it across Soul's almost breakable skin to wipe the red from the white, pink staining where the blood had sat for a while. He bit his lip in an attempt not to burst into tears at the sight of his friend. He opened the bottled of peroxide after he'd cleaned up what he could of the blood on Soul's skin. Carefully, Black Star just barely poured some of of the liquid over the stitched up gashes since they were still slightly open, hoping to get something in there to fight off an infection that could potentially harm his friend. White bubbles flooded the area, like the gashes were rabid animals ready to attack. Sniffling, he waited for it to die down before taking the gauze and pressing it as soft as he could against the area over the mess of white foam, thread stitches and blood that refused to stop even though it just barely leaked out now. After drying it off, he put medical suave such as Neosporin on a fresh bandage and put it back in the same spot, a line of the cream over each gash. Black Star was careful not to touch Soul's skin when he applied the tape to keep the gauze from falling away from the skin. He was scared to touch the skin.

Scared it would break, shatter into a million pieces then turn to ash.

Scared to see how cold it was.

Scared to touch the scars.

There were just so many of them. Soul's out most organ didn't even look natural any more from how many there were. Especially were Soul's bones tried to rip out of the skin. It was pulled so tightly against then from malnutrition that each one of his ribs could be counted. Though Black Star did what he had to. He was not about to let his friend be left in this condition. He picked him up and place him in the bathtub so he could clean the rest of the area. The smell of bleach was going to be hard to explain so as he poured the liquid in a sink full of water to dilute it, he tried to think of excuses to use. Occasionally he glanced back at the paled weapon that was limp in the tub. Soon he was done cleaning and he turns back to his friend. Blood was dried into his white hair and it still laced his face.

He leaned over and grabbed the handles to the bath, turning on the hot water and some of the cold so it wasn't scolding and moved Soul back away from the drain. He didn't want to have to change the bandages again. The worst part about moving Soul for Black Star wasn't the pure dead weight that was Soul's barely alive body. It was the fact that he felt he could break Soul. The bones moving against the taller male's body made him feel as if he moved even slightly wrong he could break him. It was a feeling that Black Star absolutely hated. He picked up a small pitcher that Patty used for her baths and filled it with water, carefully pouring it over the weapon's hair. The dried blood moistened and some of it slicked out of the tangled, dull white strands. After a few more times of doing this, Black Star then grabbed a shampoo bottle and began to lather his hair with it. Crimson tainted the soap and water as it ran down in small rivers. Biting his lip, the assassin rinsed out the tainted soap.

"How could you do this to yourself Soul..?" He spoke aloud in a soft voice. He wasn't really speaking to anyone, just speaking out loud to get the questions off his chest, even if they couldn't be answered right now. "To let your skin feel like... a protective armouring .. what have you BEEN through..?" He whimpered out, tears welling in his eyes. Making sure all the shampoo had dispersed from the dull strands, he turned off the water and grabbed another towel. Soul's face was like a child sleeping. Like he was just a pure little kid coming home after a hard day of playing with friends and sitting on the couch to watch cartoons but then just fell asleep. Black Star moved a few pieces of hair from Soul's face, his eye flicking over every inch of it, wondering how such a perfect beautiful face such as this could bore so many secrets and burdens. It was enough to break his heart.

He lifted him from the tub, towel in hand. He wrapped him in the clothe and picked up Soul's backpack. He glanced around the bathroom to try and see if he could spot anything that would raise suspicions. After deciding it was safe he reached for the door handle, Soul still clasped tightly in his arms with a towel around him. Black Star hesitated with his hand on the handle. What would the others say about Soul being in only a towel and the two leaving the bathroom together? What would they assume? Would they ask questions? He pushed the thoughts from his mind as his hand turned the handle until the lock clicked open. With a deep inhale, he pushed the door open.

Black Star took enough of a step out of the bathroom to glance down the hall. The others were distracted with another game luckily. Carefully and quietly, the assassin carried the weapon off to the room he was staying in for the night since there were enough rooms in the mansion for every guest and habitant to have they're own room for the night. He silently shut the door behind him with the heel of his foot. He hurried over to lay Soul down on the bed so he could search for some type of clean clothes for the boy. He removed the bag from his body and unzipped it to shuffle through the clothes in it. He grabbed the fresh pair of pyjamas for the boy. A baggy reddish long sleeved shirt and matching plaid pyjama pants along with a pair of clean boxers. Folding them out on the foot of the bed, he turned his attention to completely drying off Soul enough to put on the clothes on him. He toss the towel to the floor and grabbed the boxers, carefully pulling them up over the bandaged and damaged area on Soul's hip. It still pained the assassin to think of such wounds being inflicted on purpose. He followed the boxers with the pants and the shirt. The paled weapon's skin was still ice cold to the touch. Worried something could possible catch hold of Soul's immune system in this weakened state, he grabbed a few more blanket from the closet to add to the comforter Soul already had, then he draped all of them over the small figure. He stood back to look and see if anything else was out of place.

Deciding it was satisfying for now, he backed up to the door and opened it, slipping out like a mist or fog, flipping the light off so only the moonlight shone into the room and illuminated shapes. The assassin made his way back down to the group and apologized for taking so long and said that he and Soul had got caught up in talking about the different mission they'd been on and the Soul had decided to go to bed because he was exhausted "Soul looked perfectly fine before he went to the bathroom." Maka retorted. Black Star shrugged. "Maybe it was stress from the game? I don't know. Maybe he felt sick and didn't wanna say anything to ruin the night for us." Kidd looked to be in thought over the words as he analyized the way they were presented to him, as did Maka. Patty seemed to not even mentally be there a the time and Liz seemed very disinterested. Tsubaki seemed a bit worried for the weapon. "Should we go check on him to see if he's okay..?" Tsubaki asked the group. Their potential answers were cut off by the assassin. "No, you shouldn't. He told me he didn't wanna be bothered and that he'd be fine." The others believed the lies and left the weapon alone, continuing their night of fun. Soon though, everyone retired to bed, unable to keep their eyes fully open anymore. Each person trudged back to their own rooms.

The cool night started to pass by slowly, though a certain assassin couldn't seem to force himself to sleep after what he witnessed today. He was so conflicted, unable to decided if he should keep what his friend was doing a secret, or if he should tell and get help, or even if he should just forget he ever saw it. The third option was pretty much impossible though. There was no way he was going to forget what he saw, not with what he did to cover it up. His hands were placed behind his blue haired head, his eyes fixated on the ceiling mind wandering. It was so quiet in that moment. He turned his head to glance over at the digital clock on the dresser. 2:47 A.M. Black Star let out a soft sigh as he turned back to look at the ceiling Though as he turned his head, he just barely caught the noise of a door slowly clicking closed and soften footsteps padding down the hallway by his door hurried. There were only two rooms down that way. Kidd's and Soul's. He knew that Kidd was plum out by now. Jumping to his feet, he headed to the door and ripped it open only to see a glimpse of white hair rounding the corner at the end of the hall.

Soul could hear the footsteps quickly approaching behind him so he had to hurry his own pace though, with the stitched gashes on his side, it was hard to. He could feel them wanting to rip back open, wanting to bleed more of the crimson liquid he did not deserve to hoard or waste, of which he did both. He pushed back the pain and forced his legs to make him go faster. His vision would flash white every now and then with how much pain he was in. The thumping behind him grew faster and louder. Closer and closer. Soul couldn't let them get louder. He couldn't let them get closer or faster. He reached the end of the stairs and rounded the edge quickly, backpack plastered on his back. He was most definitely ditching this party. He raced for the door, footsteps closing in on him as he desperately tried to unlock the door. "D-Damn it..!" He muttered under his breathe as the lock refused to cooperate with his shaky hands. Just as soon as he got it to click and started to pull open the door, a hand slammed it back shut near Soul's head.

Soul let out an audible gulp, much like he would when he'd swallow kishin eggs. "Where do you think you're heading off to Soul?" He asked sternly, a trait that seemed weird for Black Star to have since he was normally so hyper and happy all the time. "I-I uh.." Soul couldn't think of any excuse. And he couldn't just say that he was leaving with what Black Star had witnessed tonight. "I th-thought you'd be asleep.." He whispered out, trying not to sound devastatingly scared at the moment as he turned to face the other male. Black Star shook his head. "Nope. not after what I saw." The weapon let his gaze drop to the ground, guilt, regret, fear, anger, depression, all of it welling up over his chest, feeling like it was about to crush his lungs and heart. The seconds of silence seemed to tick on forever, each one painstakingly longer than the one before. It wasn't before Black Star sharply inhaled that the weapon looked up. The other seemed to be struggling to find words to say to him. Soul bit into his bottom lip, scars were his shark teeth would constantly chew at the spots on his lips and cheeks. He was waiting for more degrading things to be said to him because he knew he deserved every single word of it.

But the assassin only managed to form one word that was better than all his questions combined. ".. Why..?" It came out soft, like he was only trying to say it to himself. Soul stared into his eyes which were firmly locked on his own crimson bloodshot ones. He had nothing to say to the Meister They were best friends, partners in crime, closer than a collar on the neck of a far too neglected dog. But he could never explain to him why he did what he did. He knew the reason himself. Now thinking that anyone would understand his reasoning? That would have been a miracle to him. Minutes passed with the other male still waiting for any sort of answer. Anything could have sufficed for him right now. He just wanted to know that it wasn't for attention or for no reason. Soul cleared his throat softly. "..It's.. It's none of your business why I'm doing this Black Star.." he answered finally, the silence broken, question answered. It wasn't what Black Star wanted but at least it was something and not just silence anymore. The assassin hesitated a minute before nodded once slowly and pulling back away. "You.. should stay.. I told the other that.. that you were sick so uh.. Leaving in the middle of night for a 'sick' person isn't the best thing and they'd like.. hunt you done to make sure you're okay. God I couldn't imagine what they'd do if they knew the truth.."


End file.
